Any event is automatically fun if you sneak into someplace you’re not supposed to be–like the balcony at the Congress Theater, where I found myself last Saturday night. Collaboraction, a local theater group and nonprofit arts organization known for its experimental plays, wacky theme parties, and enormous faculty for attracting money, was throwing its second annual Carnaval bash. Included in the $25 admission fee were samba dancing, a body-painting show, an open bar, and a demolition derby involving those big motorized toy cars that rich people get for their kids. Profits from Carnaval would fund Collaboraction’s production of Guinea Pig Solo at the Chopin Theatre starting March 5.
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While a capoeira group performed in the lobby, photographer Andrea Beno and I walked right past them into the VIP lounge. VIPs had paid $45–$20 more than everyone else–for access to the room’s hidden delights, which turned out to be a buffet table of meat, sushi, and sweets and a stash of “premium” adult beverages. By the time we got up there the preparty was over. Half-eaten Bundt cakes, runny blobs of flan, and the carcass of some chocolate confection were strewn across a few tables. But there was still plenty of booze at the unmanned bar, so I slipped a bottle of chardonnay into the giant handbag I take to parties for just such an opportunity.
So when I left for the party on Saturday I told my friends I’d meet up with them in Boys Town soon. They nodded sagely–none of them go to Collaboraction parties unless they’re working or on the list.
The models started traipsing down the stairs, most wearing nothing but a thong, some feathers, crusts of glitter, and scallops, swirls, dots, and blocks of paint. And they were beautiful. One woman looked like a cross between a geisha and a tart from Moulin Rouge, with a painted-on black-and-red bodice and a quiver of red feathers covering her quim. Another woman pranced around like a fairy, covered in pink and purple glittery stripes and waving a beribboned wand. The crowd seemed to like the two-woman team best. Both their torsos were painted in full-bloom roses, with tangles of vines trailing down their legs and fluffy tulle trains on their booties. The only guy in the show came out with his face painted like the Misfits skull, the rest of him like a blood-spattered robot zombie with an elaborate fly painted on its chest. I was so entranced I barely minded when some bitch behind me dumped her nachos down the back of my pants.
